Текст книги "The Unbound"

Автор книги: Victoria Schwab

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

TWENTY

WHEN I WAKE UP, Wesley’s gone. There’s nothing but a dent on the comforter to show that he was ever here. It’s late, light streaming in through the windows, and I lie there for a moment, sleep still clinging to me—dreamless, easy sleep, filled only with music—and savor the calm. And then I move, and pain ripples sharply down my arm and dully through my shoulders, and I remember.

What have I done?

What I had to, I tell myself.

The Archive paper sits on my side table, tucked beneath The Inferno. At least there’s still only the one name.

Abigail Perry. 8.

I pocket the list. The smell of coffee drags me out of bed, and my hand’s on the door before I notice there’s dried blood staining my sleeve. I tug out of the shirt; the outline of Agatha’s grip is nearly visible in the stain. I unwrap the dressing as quickly as possible—my eyes sliding off the gash as if it is a void, something wrong, unnatural, drawing and repelling my gaze at once—and pull a clean shirt on before heading into the kitchen. Dad’s already there, brewing a pot of dark roast.

“I sent Wes home,” he says in lieu of a good morning.

“I’m amazed you let him stay,” I say, gingerly tugging the clean shirtsleeve down over the stitches. Maybe out of sight will turn into out of mind.

“Actually, he kind of refused to leave.” Dad pours me a cup. “After what happened.”

I take the mug and drag through my thoughts. Past Agatha’s interrogation and Owen’s nightmare to the room tipping and the water glass shattering on the hardwood floor. “How could she, Dad?”

He rubs his eyes and takes a long sip. “I don’t condone what your mother did, Mackenzie. But you have to understand, she was only trying to—”

“Don’t tell me she was trying to help.”

He sighs. “We’re all trying to help, Mac. We just don’t know how.” I look down at my coffee. “And for the record, that was a one-time deal, having your boyfriend stay the night.”

“Wesley’s not my boyfriend.”

He arches a brow over his coffee. “Does he know that?”

My eyes escape to the coffee cup as I remember his arms folding around me, the comforting blanket of his noise.

“Caring about someone is scary, Mac. I know. Especially when you’ve lost people. It’s easy to think it’s not worth it. It’s easy to think life will hurt less if you don’t. But it’s not life unless you care about it. And if you feel half of what he feels for you, don’t push him away.”

I nod distantly, wishing I could tell him that I do feel half, more than half, maybe even all of what Wesley feels, but that it’s not that simple. Not in my world. I lean my elbows carefully on the counter. “What are you up to today?” I ask lightly.

“I have to go to the university for a bit. Left some work there that I didn’t get to yesterday.”

Because you were playing warden. “And Mom?”

“Down in the café.”

I sip my coffee. “And me?” I ask cautiously. The list is like a weight in my pocket.

“You’ll be with her,” he says. What he means is, She’ll be watching you.

“I still have some homework to do,” I lie.

“Take it down there,” he says. His tone is gentle, but the message is clear. I won’t be left unattended. The love is there, the trust is gone.

I tell Dad I need to take a shower first, and he nods for me to go. A small part of me marvels at the fact I’m allowed to bathe without supervision, until I see that they’ve already taken every remotely sharp object out of the bathroom.

I’m hoping he’ll go on ahead to work and I’ll be able to make a quick detour into the Narrows on my way downstairs, but by the time I’m out of the shower and dressed and my arm and hand are freshly wrapped, he’s waiting for me by the door.

He ushers me down to the coffee shop like a prisoner, passing me over to my mother’s care. She won’t look at me. I won’t talk to her. I know she wanted to help, but I don’t care. I’m not the only one in this place capable of losing someone’s trust.

For a woman who won’t look me in the eyes, it’s amazing how she manages to never let me out of her sight. Thankfully the coffee shop is pretty full, and I welcome the lack of eye contact for the first hour as I clear tables and ring up drinks. Berk’s working today, too, which helps. He has a kind of infectious cheer and a hatred for quiet, so he makes enough small talk to cover up the fact that Mom and I haven’t said a word to each other.

“I hope the guy deserved it,” says Berk when I reach out to take a coffee and he sees my bandaged palm and healing knuckles. “Is that the reason you two are fighting?” he asks, gesturing with a pair of tongs to Mom, who’s retreated by now to the patio to chat with a woman in the corner table, her eyes flicking in my general direction every few moments.

“One of many,” I say.

Thankfully he doesn’t ask more about it—doesn’t even assume it’s all my fault. He just says, “They mean well, parents,” and then tells me to take out the trash, adding, “You look like you could use a little fresh air.”

I weigh my odds for escaping to the Narrows, but they aren’t good. There’s a door in the closet at the back of the café, but that’s not exactly inconspicuous, and my other two doors—the one in the lobby and the one on the third floor—aren’t in easy reach. As for Mom, well, Berk’s barely handed me the bag before her eyes dart my way. I hoist up the trash for her to see and point to the back door. Her eyes narrow and she starts heading toward me, but gets snagged by another table halfway. She flashes me three fingers.

Three minutes.

Fine. Abigail Perry will have to wait, but at least I’ll prove to Mom that I can be left alone. I duck out the back door, relishing my three minutes of privacy and sunlight. As soon as I’m outside, I let my steps slow, savoring every second of freedom.

I’ve just finished loading the bags into the bin when a hand tangles in my shirt and slams me up against the Coronado wall, hard.

“How dare you?” growls Sako, her harsh metallic noise scraping through my bones.

“What are you talking ab—” Her other fist connects with my ribs, and I hit the alley floor, gasping.

“You’ve really made a mess of things. You never should have gone to Agatha.”

“What’s the matter?” I cough, getting to my feet. “Do you have something to hide?”

She grabs me again and slams me back against the stone side of the Coronado.

“I’m loyal to the Archive, you little shit. A fact Agatha can attest to, because thanks to your cracked little head and its paranoid delusions, I just spent the night letting her claw through my life.” She leans in, her face inches from mine. Her black eyes are bloodshot, and dark circles stand out against the pale skin beneath them. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?” she hisses. “Because you will. Once she runs out of Crew, she’ll come for you. And I hope she tears you apart one memory at a time until there’s nothing left.”

I’m still reeling from the fact that Sako’s innocent when she shoves away from me and says, “She still has Eric. She’s been with him for hours. And if she punishes him because of you, I will tear your throat open with my fingernails.”

“He shouldn’t have been following me,” I say.

Sako makes an exasperated noise. “He was only following you because Roland asked him to. To keep you safe.” The last word comes out in a hiss. I feel like I’ve been hit again, the air rushes from my lungs as she adds, “Though what Roland sees in you, I have no idea.”

Sako smooths her blue-black hair, her Crew key glittering against her wrist. “Maybe I should tell Agatha about your little boyfriend, Wesley. Maybe he should be a suspect. Couldn’t hurt for her to take a look.”

“Wes has nothing to do with this,” I say through gritted teeth, “and you know it.”

“Do I?” asks Sako. She turns away. “Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, little Keeper. It’ll be your turn soon enough. And when it is, I hope Agatha lets me drag you in myself.”

She storms away, and I’m left sagging against the wall, winded and worried. Sako and Eric are both innocent?

Cracked little head, echoes Sako in my ears.

Broken, echoes Owen in my mind.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the voices to quiet. I know what I saw. I saw a void. Voids are made by Crew keys, so it had to be Crew. Eric and Sako are not the only pages in the ledger. I try to picture the book on the Archive desk, turn through it in my mind. There’s a master page, a table of contents, and then one page for each person who serves in the branch. How many pages total? A hundred? More? Our branch serves a territory with a diameter of two to three hundred miles. How many cities fall within that circle? How many pages of the book could be dedicated to this city? And how many of those pages belong to Crew? How many people for Agatha to go through? Four? Eight? Twelve? I crossed paths with the victims, but have I crossed paths with the criminal?

I take a deep breath, checking myself again for blood before I go back inside.

“There you are,” says Berk. “I was beginning to think I’d lost you.”

“Sorry,” I say, ducking behind the counter. “I ran into a friend.”

Mom’s on the patio serving some new customers, and I catch her stealing a glance through the glass to make sure I’m back. She taps her watch, but my attention shifts past her as Sako saunters down the curb. She’s talking on the phone now, her head tipped lazily back as if soaking up the sun, and I realize something. Moments ago she was a monster, an animal, all teeth and bite. And now, impossibly, she looks normal. Crew look normal. They have the ability to blend in. Even Eric, made of gold. I didn’t notice him until he wanted me to. Crew could be anyone. What if whoever’s doing this doesn’t stand out? What if they blend right in? What if they’ve slipped into my life unnoticed?

Berk laughs and chats with a customer at the end of the counter. My eyes go to his hands, and I tense when I see that they’re bare but for a single silver thumb ring. He’s only been here for a couple weeks. But his sleeves are rolled up and free of marks. I scan the coffee shop, searching for regulars. I’m looking for people on the periphery of my life, close enough to watch me without being noticed. But no one stands out. And that’s exactly the problem.

Just then, a second name scrawls itself on the list in my pocket—Bentley Cooper. 12.—and I start to wish I’d risked Mom’s wrath to find Abigail. I’m going to have my work cut out for me later.

“Hey, Mac,” calls Berk, nodding at the door. “Customer.”

I pocket the paper and turn, expecting a stranger, and find Cash instead.

Wesley may trade in his preppy schoolboy persona for guyliner and silver studs, but Cash’s weekend look is still solidly Hyde. His dark-wash jeans and crisp white polo make me feel dingy in my Bishop’s apron.

His gold eyes light up when he sees me. He crosses the café and hops up onto a stool. “So this is where you live!” he says cheerfully.

“This is where I work,” I say, drying a mug. “Upstairs is where I live.”

He spins around on his stool and leans his elbows back on the counter while he surveys the café.

“Enchanting.”

When he turns back around, I’ve already poured him a drink.

“And enchanted,” he says, gesturing at the cup.

“I figured it was my turn to provide the coffee,” I say. “So, what are you doing here?”

He takes a slow sip. “I brought your bike. I saw that you left it at school.”

“Wow,” I say, “you take your ambassador role very seriously.”

“Indeed,” he says with a sober nod. “But if I’m being honest, the bike was an excuse to come say hi.”

I feel myself blushing. “Oh really?”

He nods. “I was worried. Seniors are in charge of organizing Fall Fest, and Wesley bailed on prep yesterday. When I asked where he was, he said with you, and I was about to give him hell for it, as is my friendly obligation, but he told me you’d had a bit of a scrape. So I thought I’d look you up and come make sure you were all right.”

“Oh,” I say. “You didn’t have to, really. I’m fine.”

“We must have different definitions of fine,” he says, nodding at my bandaged hand. “What happened?”

“It’s stupid, really. This old building,” I say, showing him my taped palm. “I put my hand against a window and it broke. It’s not a big deal,” I add, the fourteen stitches aching under my other sleeve. “I’ll live.”

Cash brings his fingertips to my hand, so light I barely hear the jazz and laughter in his touch. “Glad to hear it,” he says, sounding strangely sincere. He rests his elbows on the counter, looking down into his drink. “Hey, so I’ve been thinking—”

Someone clears their throat, interrupting Cash, and I look up to see Wes standing a foot away, considering us. Or more precisely, considering Cash’s hand, which is still touching mine. I pull away.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he says. He looks freshly showered, dressed in simple black, his hair slicked back and still wet, his eyes rimmed with dark.

“Testing out your Fall Fest costume?” teases Cash.

Wes ignores the jab. “Am I interrupting something?” he asks.

“No,” I say at the same time Cash mutters, “Not at all.”

“Cash was just bringing me my bike.”

Wes arches a brow. “The student council is far more involved than it used to be.”

Cash’s eyes narrow even as he smiles. “Quality assurance,” he says.

A moment of tense silence falls over us. When it’s clear Wesley is here to stay, Cash hops down from his stool. “Speaking of,” he says, “I’d better get back to Hyde. I left a huddle of freshmen hanging ribbons, and I just don’t trust that lot with ladders.” He turns his attention to Wesley. “Are you coming by later?”

Wes shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says, pointing upstairs. “Got to look after Jill for a bit. I’ll stay late tomorrow.”

“You better. Senior pride is on the line.” He heads for the door. “Thanks for the coffee, Mackenzie.”

“Thanks for the bike,” I say. “And the chat.”

“Any time.”

Wesley watches Cash go. “You like him,” he says quietly.

“So do you,” I say. “He’s a nice guy.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” I do like Cash. He’s normal. And when he’s around, I almost forget that I’m not.

“I would have been here sooner,” says Wes, “but it appears my access to your territory has been revoked. Any idea why?”

I frown. Agatha.

“Maybe they decided it was time to hand me the reins,” I say as casually as possible. “How did you get here, then? Did you drive?”

“For your information, I took the bus.”

I shudder at the thought. So many people in such a tiny box. But Wes has always been better with contact than I am. After all, he’s the one who taught me how to let the noise wash over me, how to float instead of drown in the current of people’s lives.

“Talk and work, kids. Talk and work,” calls Berk from the other end of the counter. Wesley smiles and ducks under the bar.

“So,” he asks, softer, “how did you sleep last night?”

The rooftop and the gargoyles and Owen’s knife all flash through my mind.

“Awful at first,” I say. “But then…” I feel my face warming. “I heard your noise, filling my head, and the nightmare just kind of fell apart.”

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” he says, pouring himself a drink. “You called my name.”

“Oh,” I say, as he takes a sip, “that’s because I killed you.”

Wes nearly chokes on his coffee.

“It was an accident,” I add. “Promise.”

“Great,” he says, knocking his shoulder against mine, briefly filling my head with rock and bass and drum. “Let’s see if we can keep you nightmare-free.” He pulls back a little. “Oh, and I talked to Amber. I asked her to let me know if Detective Kinney gets any leads. She said he’s gotten really tight-lipped, but that she’ll try to keep me posted. I think she thought I wanted to know because of Bethany.…”

I’d nearly forgotten about their history. “I’m sorry about her,” I say. A void is a rip in the world. It only stays open long enough to drag something—someone—through, and then it seals. Once a person is gone…

“Yeah. Well. I don’t understand the why, but you’re right about the what,” says Wes. “I swung by her house to see if anything stood out.”

“And?” I ask.

“Something’s definitely off. It’s in the driveway, right next to the car. I couldn’t look right at it.”

A breath of relief escapes. I didn’t realize how badly I needed someone else to see the voids. Just then, my mother comes over. “Wesley,” she says by way of hello as she scoops up two drinks from the counter.

Wes ducks back under the counter and nods. “Hi, Mrs. Bishop.”

She seems nervous, and he seems tense, and I remember him growling at her last night, when the world began to tilt.

What have you done?

But in the unbalance, I see an opening. “Hey, Wes is going to watch Jill for a while. Can I go with him?”

It’s the first thing I’ve said to her since last night, and I can see the struggle play out across her face as her eyes flick from Wesley to me (or at least to my apron, my collar, my jaw). She doesn’t want to let me out of her sight. But if she says no, it’ll only cement her as the villain. We’re teetering at the edge of something high and steep, and neither of us wants to go over. Part of me thinks that after last night, Mom has already jumped, but I’m offering a rope, a chance to climb back up onto the ledge.

I can tell she wants to take it, but something stops her. I wonder if it’s Colleen’s voice in her head, warning against the pitfalls of lenient parenting and encouraging vigilance.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.…” Mom looks around the café, but Colleen’s an hour away, Berk’s staying out of our family drama, and Dad’s not here to back her up. If he were, I’m pretty sure he’d side with me.

“I’ll keep her out of trouble, Mrs. Bishop,” offers Wesley, flashing her a small, genuine smile. If he’s surprised by my inviting myself along, he never shows it. “Promise.”

Mom shifts her weight, fingers curled around the coffee cups. A man at a corner table flags her over. “Okay,” she says at last, still not looking at me. “But be back down in an hour,” she adds. “In case it gets busy.”

“Sure thing,” I say, ducking under the counter before she can see the relief splashed across my face.

“And Mac,” she says when Wes and I are nearly to the door.

“Yeah?”

I’m sorry. I can see the words on her lips as she looks at the space a foot to my left, but she can’t say them. “One hour,” she says again for emphasis. I nod and follow Wes out.

TWENTY-ONE

“YOU’RE IN A HURRY,” says Wes once we’re on the grand stairs.

“Things to do, dear Wesley.”

“I’m intrigued,” he says. “But you know, when I said I was going to watch Jill, I didn’t intend it as a euphemism. Not that I’m averse, it’s just—”

“There are two Histories on my list,” I cut in. “And my parents have been playing warden and watch all weekend. I needed an excuse to get away so I could track the names down.”

“Is that all my company is to you?” he asks with mock affront. “An excuse?”

We reach the top of the stairs, and I take his chin in my hand, rock music singing through my fingers. “If it makes you feel better,” I say teasingly, “you’re a very pretty excuse.”

His brow crinkles. “I would have preferred dashing, but I’ll take it.”

My hand starts to slide away, but he catches it, holding it gently against his jaw. He gazes down through his black lashes, flashing me a sultry look. Even though I know he’s playing, I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Finally his hand slips away; but as it does, his fingers graze my forearm and I pull back, wincing.

Wesley’s flirting dissolves into a frown. “I don’t think you should be hunting.”

I sigh and head into the stairwell. “I don’t have a choice.”

“I could do it for you.”

I shake my head. “You no longer have access to my territory.”

“You could loan me your key.”

“No,” I say simply, pushing open the door to the third floor and heading down the hall. “I need to do it myself.”

“Wait,” he says. “Just wait.” I drag myself to a stop beside the painting of the sea. My hour of freedom ticks away inside my head. Wes runs a hand through his hair. “You’ve been through a lot,” he says. “Just give yourself a break.”

“I can’t,” I say simply. “The Archive won’t. I have to do this. It’s my job. If I can’t hunt, then I don’t deserve to be a Keeper.” I realize with a sinking feeling that it’s true. I have to prove that I can do this, that I’m not broken. Agatha’s not convinced, and right now, neither am I. But I can’t give up. As badly as I want a normal life, I don’t want to lose this. Lose myself. Lose Wes.

“I won’t be long,” I say. As I tug my ring off and pocket it, my senses adjust to the hall, to the keyhole now visible in the wallpaper crease, and to the closeness of Wesley’s body, humming with life.

He frowns, tugging off his own ring. “I’m going with you.”

“What about Jill?”

He waves a hand. “It’s Jill. She’s got her nose in some book. She couldn’t care less if I’m there to watch her turn the pages.”

“You don’t have to come,” I say, sliding my key over my head and slotting it in the wall.

“But I am,” he says matter-of-factly as the Narrows door spreads, stainlike, over the wallpaper beside us. “Listen. I get that you need to do this, but it’s been a bad few days, and I don’t want you going in there by yourself, okay? Besides, I told your mom I’d keep you out of trouble, and this has trouble written all over it. So if you’re determined to go stomping around the Narrows, then I’m going with you.” His crooked smile flickers back to life. “And if you try to stop me—well then, I’ll scream.”

“You wouldn’t,” I gasp.

“I would. And you’d be surprised how far my voice carries.”

“Fine. You can come.” I sigh and turn the key in the Narrows door. “But don’t get in my way.”

Wes starts forward and then stops, remembering something. “What about your summons?” he asks. “Don’t you need to report?”

I hesitate. “I already did,” I say slowly. “I spoke to Agatha last night.”

“And? Did you tell her about the voids? Your theory?”

I nod, half expecting Wes to tell me I should have kept my mouth shut, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know Agatha, not the way I do. To him, she is the assessor. The authority. The Archive. It probably wouldn’t occur to him to keep it a secret.

“She wasn’t very happy,” I add.

“I bet,” says Wes. “What did she say?”

I will tear your life apart, moment by moment, to uncover your guilt. Because you have proven one thing tonight, Miss Bishop: you are guilty of something. Maybe it’s the voids, or maybe it’s madness, but whatever it is, I will find out.

“She said she’d take care of it.”

“Well…” Wes rubs his neck. “I guess that’s a relief? I mean, this is Agatha. She’ll get to the bottom of it, one way or another.”

“Yeah,” I say, opening the door. I have a sickening feeling he’s right.

On good days, the stale, twisting corridors of the Narrows put me on edge. Today, they make my skin crawl. Every little sound twists itself into a set of footsteps. A door knock. A distant voice. My pulse inches up before the door to the Outer is even closed, before the little light that snuck through the boundary between worlds is snuffed, plunging us into the key-lit dark.

My wounded arm hangs at my side, aching dully. I force myself to focus on the task at hand instead of the way the pain creeps through my senses, threatening to drag me into a darker place. I can almost feel Owen pinning me against him, his hands over my hands over the knife.…

“Mac?” asks Wes under his breath. I shake myself free of the thoughts. I cannot afford to lose myself here, not with names on my list and Wesley at my back. I can feel him behind me, so close I can almost feel his life radiating off of him like heat. He’s keeping his body tensed as if he thinks I’ll fall, as if he’ll need to catch me.

Two names. Two Histories. That’s all. It ought to be routine. Anger prickles through me. If I can’t do this, I don’t deserve to be called a Keeper.

“I’m okay,” I say, pressing my hand to the nearest wall to hide the fact it’s shaking. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily. Taking hold of the thread of time, I turn it back, and the Narrows flickers up again in my mind. I roll it backward until a boy flashes into sight. He’s there and then gone just as quickly, but I know where to go next. That’s all I need. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. I pull away and follow his path around the corner, weaving deeper into the Narrows. Soon I find my stride and forget about the pain in my arm and the whisper in my head that says broken broken broken in Owen’s voice.

“See?” I say, pulling away from another wall. “I told you I’d be—”

I’m halfway through the word fine when I round the corner and nearly collide with a body. Instinct kicks in, and I slam the form back against the Narrows wall before I’ve even registered how small it is, or the fact that it’s not fighting back. The girl’s shoes dangle off the ground, and she looks at me with wide, terrified eyes, her pupils wavering.

Abigail Perry. 8.

The look in her eyes is like cold water. The spell of the Narrows breaks, the nightmarish echoes retreat, and I remember my job. Not to frighten or fight, but to return. To set right.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she whispers.

I lower the girl’s shoes to the ground, loosening my grip without letting go.

“I’m sorry,” I say as gently as possible. “I didn’t mean to grab you. It’s just, you scared me.”

Her eyes widen a little more, the pupils settling. “I’m scared, too,” she says.

Her gaze drifts to Wesley behind me. “Are you?” she asks him, and Wes, who’s always been more of a return-first-talk-later kind of Keeper, kneels in front of Abigail and says, “I am, but Mac here, she’s going to show us the way out.”

She looks up at me expectantly, and I nod. “That’s right,” I say, still shaky. “Let’s get out of here.”

I find the nearest Returns door and send her through. And in that instant before I close the door—when the hall fills with white light—I think of the day I got trapped in that blinding room and my life played all over the walls before folding in square by square, taking my breath and heartbeat with it. I wonder for an instant if that’s what it’s like to be erased.

But I have no desire to find out.

Two halls away, we run into Bentley Cooper. 12. He throws his fists up when he sees us. The kid is all skin and bones and fear, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of short life he had to leave him so defensive. The question softens something in me. I know I shouldn’t wonder; Da used to scold me for my curiosity, but I’m starting to think he was wrong. Caring is what keeps me human. I know caring is also the reason Owen haunts my dreams—if I didn’t let things in, they couldn’t hurt me—but maybe Dad was right. It’s not life unless you care about it.

I put my hands up, like I’m surrendering, and the boy’s come down, and within minutes he’s been led into the light. By the time Wes and I step back into the yellow-papered hallway of the third floor, my list and my head are both clearer. The relief I feel at making it through such a small task is sickening—I hope Wes doesn’t see it. I slide my ring on and sink back against the wall, feeling more like myself than I have in weeks.

“Well, that was fun,” he says casually as he returns his own ring to his finger. “Truth be told, I kind of miss the days when your territory was full of burly knife-wielding convicts. And remember that boy?” he adds nostalgically. “The one who took a jog through the Coronado?”

“Vividly,” I say drily. “I picked the broken glass out of your back. Right before we got chewed out for not letting Crew handle it.”

Wes sighs. “Crew have all the fun. One day…” He trails off, dragging his attention back. “Well, Miss Bishop, your list is clear, and your mother probably thinks we’ve spent the last”—he checks his watch—“fifty-two minutes engaged in any number of nefarious activities.” He reaches out and messes my hair a little, rock music playing through my head with his fingers.

“Wes,” I groan, trying to smooth it.

“What? I’m only adding authenticity. Your parents already think we’re dating.”

“I told them we’re not. They don’t seem to believe me.”

Wes shrugs. “I don’t care,” he lies. “Gives you a good excuse.”

“You’re not just an excuse, Wes.”

“No, I’m a pretty one,” he says with a wink. “I should probably get going, though. Make sure Jill isn’t trying to act out any of the things in those books of hers. She’s on a pirate kick right now. Made one of Angelli’s cats walk a makeshift plank…” He turns toward the stairs, but stops after a few feet and casts a mischievous glance back my way. “But I could come by later…if you want.”

The thought of a full night of sleep, wrapped in nothing but his noise, makes my heart ache, but I force myself to shake my head. “They’re not going to let you stay a second time.”

“Who says they have to know?” he asks.

“Sneaking into a girl’s room?” I ask with mock surprise. “That sounds like something a boyfriend would do.”

Wesley’s smile tilts. “Just leave the window open.”

I make it back to the café with five minutes to spare, catching Mom’s eye on the way in. If I’m expecting a smile, a welcome back, or an apology, I’m disappointed. Mom’s efficient glance from clock to me to clock to work makes it clear: it’s going to take a lot more than an hour without broken promises to piece our family back together.

The first thing I do when I get back upstairs is slide my bedroom window open (if my parents ask, I can say something about needing fresh air, since this seems like the only way I’ll ever get any), but when I pause to look out and down, I realize there’s no way Wes is going to get inside tonight. I rest my elbows on the window and consider the drop until I hear a nervous squeak and turn to see Mom standing in the doorway, looking at me like she thinks I’ll jump.

“Nice night,” I say, pulling my head back in.

“Dinner’s ready,” she says, nearly making eye contact before retreating into the kitchen. Progress.

Dad has insisted on cooking, as if that will mend things. He even makes my favorite—spaghetti with meatballs from scratch—but we still spend most of the meal in a silence broken only by scraping knives and forks. Dad won’t look at Mom, and Mom won’t look at me. All I can think as we sit in silence is that if my life ended right now, there would be this trail of destruction, a wake of ruined trust, and it leaves me feeling empty. Did Da ever feel this way?